


Something For His Something

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Human, Aromantic Jackson Whittemore, Asexual Derek Hale, But they try anyway, Demisexual Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, the friends don't really get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8428249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: Five times Stiles asked the wrong person for advice on Jackson's birthday and one time he asked the right person.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently writing mid-range wordcount stories is my kryptonite cuz this was so difficult, lol. Anything between 6-10k always kicks my ass, but it did get done (right on time, under the wire, like wow) and here it is!!! All difficulties aside, I had a lot of fun writing this and playing with the dynamic.
> 
> Thanks to [Lessa](http://thedaughterofkings.tumblr.com/) and [Sarah](http://ialoja.tumblr.com/) for the beta-ing!

1: JACKSON

 

Stiles bit his thumb and made a noise of frustration in his throat, frowning down at the calendar app on his phone hard enough to give himself a headache. The little highlighted square blinked up at him innocently, as if it hadn’t been _taunting_ him for days already, mocking him with the dainty little _June 15_ in the corner. That date had never held any significance for him before but this year it was important, like really super-duper-mega-awesome important, and it was only nine days away.

Nine days until Jackson’s birthday and Stiles still didn’t know what to do about it.

He had to do something. That fact wasn’t even in question, it was absolutely a requirement that he do something to celebrate Jackson’s birthday, because Jackson was his...something. They hadn’t quite decided on a term, but he was _something_ and that something was important. Ergo, he needed to do something for Jackson’s birthday to make sure Jackson _knew_ that he was important.

And yet here he was, sprawled out on his couch, glaring at the visual representation of his struggle for probably the sixth time that day, nowhere nearer a solution to his problem than he had been the first time. Because he was a sucky whatever he was to Jackson and couldn’t think of a damn thing to do that would both convey the sentiment he wished to convey and also not squick Jackson out.

What did one _do_ for their aromantic partner? How did one convey mostly-non-romantic feelings of deep care and appreciation for a romance-repulsed aromantic individual in a world where so many gestures had overwhelming and inescapable romantic connotations? How did one balance more-than-friend with not-boyfriend and get the point across properly?

He was stumped.

Stiles hastily closed the app when he heard the front door open. He tried to twist around to see who it was and ended up hanging half-off the couch, one foot stuck between the back and the arm of the couch and a hand braced on the floor to keep from getting a(nother) concussion. It was very much not a comfortable position, but it did provide an upside down view of Derek’s lovely face, so that was a plus.

“Hey, babe!” he said.

“Need help getting upright again?” Derek asked, amused.

“Yeah, that would probably be a good thing,” Stiles admitted readily. He took Derek’s hand and let the much stronger man haul him bodily off the couch and onto his feet. They ended up face to face and Stiles took advantage of the close quarters to kiss the smug smirk off Derek’s lips.

“Thanks, Superman.”

Derek rolled his eyes but gave him another kiss before picking up the grocery bags—the ones he’d abandoned in favor of rescuing Stiles from his fate—and heading for the kitchen.

“I passed Jackson in the lobby on the way up,” he said, transferring the bags from the crook of his arm to the counter. “So he’s probably right behind me.”

Stiles cursed under his breath and Derek raised an eyebrow at him.

“Thought you’d be pleased,” Derek said mildly. “You know I’m not staying in tonight—gotta be back at the library to finish my research paper before the midnight deadline—and you keep saying that the whole reason you have two of us is to make sure there’s always someone available to entertain you.”

Stiles put on his most offended face, feigned outrage undermined by the way he sidled over to wrap himself around Derek from behind and nuzzle his neck.

“You make it sound so shallow and sordid,” he protested. “I assure you, my feelings for the both of you are perfectly altruistic and as pure as driven snow.”

Derek snorted, ignoring Stiles’ clinging as he put cans of ravioli into the cabinets and twisted them all so the labels faced front.

“I don’t think I’d describe your and Jackson’s portion of the relationship as _pure,_ ” he said on a laugh, and Stiles had to concede that point. He wasn’t going to concede it out loud, though, because that would only further inflate Derek’s ego, but he was saved from having to think about something witty to say by the door opening again.

Jackson dropped his messenger bag by the door with a thump, kicked off his shoes, and said “Hey, losers” with the utmost affection, Stiles was sure. Stiles shot back his standard response of “ _You’re_ the loser” with equal fondness while Derek just shook his head, not bothering to fight his smile.

Jackson threw himself down on the couch, taking up the same position Stiles had been in just a few minutes ago. The one he had been in while he agonized over the birthday conundrum. The conundrum that had not been solved in the last six minutes and therefore was still plaguing Stiles. Stiles resisted the urge to bang his forehead against Derek’s sturdy shoulder—which he knew from experience was not actually anything like the brick wall he would _like_ to bang his head against, no matter how muscled it was—and racked his brain for his options.

Derek finished up his grocery organization before Stiles could think of anything and wiggled around in his tight grip to face him.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about,” he said, “stop thinking about it so hard. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Stiles made a face at him rather than admit he already _had—_ that headache was still going strong. Derek just kissed him on the nose because he was secretly a dork like that and gave his butt a friendly squeeze before extricating himself and heading for the door. He ruffled Jackson’s hair on the way past and Jackson gave a halfhearted noise of complaint.

“You two have fun without me,” Derek threw over his shoulder. “And don’t forget to change the sheets this time.”

“That was _one time!”_ Stiles cried. “That was—Derek, it was, like, almost a year ago! You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

But Derek was already closing the door behind him, just his laughter carrying back to them. Stiles scowled at a snickering Jackson.

“One time,” he sighed in exasperation. “ _One time_ we didn’t change the sheets after sex, and it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Why doesn’t he bitch at _you_ about that?”

“Maybe because I’m not his boyfriend,” Jackson pointed out.

That was a fair point, but _still._ Stiles had been very careful not to let it happen again because, despite what his dad might say, Stiles was actually capable of learning from his mistakes and changing his behavior where necessary. And considering Derek’s sex-repulsion was strong enough that the smell of sweat and come on the sheets that one time had made him sick and kept him out of the bedroom he and Stiles shared for days, Stiles had deemed that a very necessary behavior-changing area.

In his defense, neither of them had really known the extent of Derek’s sex-repulsion before that incident. Stiles was of the sex-neutral demi-ace persuasion, so he hadn’t minded that Derek didn’t want sex to be a part of their relationship and that had been that. Until Jackson had come along, inched his way into Stiles’ heart alongside Derek, and been totally on board the sexytime train. So after the negotiations and arrangements were all made and everything was settled, _that_ was when they all simultaneously realized how strongly (re:  _negatively_ ) Derek reacted to the actual physical presence of sex, or even just the aftermath of it.

It wasn’t a fun time for anyone, but it had been an important learning experience. Derek’s repulsion may have mellowed out a bit since then, enough that he didn’t mind knowing that they had sex in the bed as long as there wasn’t evidence left behind for him to see or smell, but that didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t still mindful of it.

Just like he needed to be mindful of Jackson’s _romance_ -repulsion. It wasn’t as visceral a response, true, but things like flowers and heart-shaped chocolates were more than enough to make Jackson cringe and run for the hills. Stiles couldn’t do for him all the sappy stuff he did for Derek, he just couldn’t. If this were Derek’s birthday coming up, Stiles wouldn’t be having any problem at all.

...If it were _Derek’s_ birthday.

Stiles sidled over to the couch and leaned his forearms against the back of it, oh so casual like he was just gonna watch some of the terrible reality show Jackson had put on. Jackson shot him a mildly judgmental look at his choice of perch, but it wouldn’t be the first time Stiles had gotten a wild hair and decided to watch TV while trying to do a handstand instead of sitting on the various pieces of furniture like a normal person, so he didn’t bother to say anything about it. Once Stiles had deemed Jackson lured into a suitably false sense of security, he pounced.

“So, if you were to celebrate Derek’s birthday, how would you do it?”

 _Now_ Jackson’s judgmental look was not so mild.

“Derek’s birthday?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said lightly. “It’s coming up.”

“Derek’s birthday is six months away.”

“I’m planning ahead,” Stiles said. “I’m a planner, it’s what I do. I plan things. So this is me, you know, planning. Planning for Derek’s birthday.”

Jackson just stared up at him like he was nuts and, okay, maybe this was not the best of Stiles’ schemes but it was the only scheme he had for the moment so he could roll with it.

“So?” he pressed. “Birthday activities for Derek. Whadya think?”

Jackson shook his head and turned back to his show.

“Why should I know what Derek would want to do for his birthday?” he asked. “You’re his boyfriend, that’s _your_ job.”

“Yes, okay, but like...if it were _you,_ what w—”

“Take him to dinner or something,” Jackson said with something of a sneer in his voice. “Sprinkle him with rose petals and snuggle him to death. He likes that shit.”

Alright, so this wasn’t going very well. Stiles was beginning to seriously question how well this plan had been thought through. Which, he could answer himself, was not at all, really, so maybe this outcome wasn’t surprising. He mouthed wordlessly for a few seconds, looking for a way to salvage the conversation, but a huff of irritation from Jackson cut him off.

“Are we gonna talk about Derek all night?” Jackson demanded, sitting up and taking Stiles by the hair. “Or are we gonna go dirty those sheets?”

“We could do that,” Stiles said, giving up any hope of his subterfuge being at all effective. Best quit while he was ahead and sex was still on the table. “We could definitely do that, I would totally be amenable to that being done by the two of us right now, so—”

Jackson’s kisses were hot and drugging and wonderful, just like they always were. Eleven months of these kisses and they were still perfect every time. Perfect in a different way than Derek’s kisses were perfect, and Stiles was beyond blessed that he was allowed to have both, that his boys were open to this type of relationship. God, sometimes Stiles couldn’t believe that his life was real.

Which was why he needed to find a way to show Jackson exactly how much it all meant to him. Nothing about what the three of them had together was what one might call traditional, and he knew Jackson still struggled sometimes with defining it all in relation to himself and his aromanticism, but it was the best thing in Stiles’ life and he was damn well gonna find a way to make sure Jackson knew that.

After the sex, of course. The fantastic sex was gonna happen first, and then they were gonna change the sheets and maybe nap a little if Jackson was in the mood for the intimacy of that, and then Stiles was going to have to implement the dreaded Plan B: ask for help.

 

* * *

 

2: SCOTT (AND ERICA)

 

“Jackson’s birthday is seven days away and I don’t know what to do.”

Stiles kicked his feet up onto his desk and groaned, long and loud enough to get a crumpled up ball of paper thrown at him from across the bullpen because deputies of the law were actually just giant children in uniforms. Not like he didn’t already know that, considering he was one of them, but occasionally he liked to delude himself into believing that there were at least a few mature individuals in the station.

Scott, traitor that he was, just picked up the paper ball and tossed it back with a smile and a wave before shoving Stiles’ feet off the desk and appropriating that spot for his butt instead.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what to do?” he said with a shrug. “Birthday stuff.”

Stiles made a noise of aggravation—quieter this time in deference to workplace etiquette, such that it was—because his partner/best friend didn’t seem to grasp the scope of this particular problem.

“I’m not throwing him a surprise party and hanging pinatas, Scott,” he said. “For one, Jackson hates parties, so there’s the big birthday _thing_ out the window. For another, he doesn’t have enough close friends to actually want to hang out with them or anything. But I gotta do something!”

“Why?”

“Because!”

Scott raised an eyebrow at him, apparently looking for something more coherent than that. Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning forward to drop his head onto Scott’s knee. Scott, taking that moment to apparently be a _good_ best friend instead of a _useless_ one, petted Stiles’ hair and made (only slightly mocking) comforting noises.

“Why don’t you just do something nice with him?” Scott asked. “Take him out to dinner, buy him expensive presents, the whole nine yards.”

“But that’s exactly the kind of thing he _doesn’t_ want!” Stiles protested. “That’s romance, Scott! He hates that stuff!”

“Who doesn’t like fancy dinners and presents?” Scott asked, sounding honestly baffled that anyone could be turned off by that.

But then, Stiles couldn’t really be surprised by that considering Scott was the epitome of a _romantic_ in the most sickeningly sweet sense of the word. He and Allison were all walks on the beach and moonlit picnics and breakfast in bed with candles on the tray. The whole concept of aromanticism seemed to confuse him at a base level, no matter how hard he tried to be understanding and accepting of Jackson’s orientation.

Stiles sighed into Scott’s pant leg and tried to think of who else he might go to for advice. Preferably someone who might be a little bit more sensitive.

“You could always try really kinky sex.”

Stiles nearly brained himself on the side of his desk because Erica was suddenly _right there,_ shoulder to shoulder with Scott and grinning at him in that deliciously predatory way of hers. She did a suggestive eyebrow wiggle that should have looked ridiculous but, combined with her red lipstick and curls, somehow managed to be classy and seductive.

Oh god, Erica would _not_ have been the next person on his list.

“If romance is a no-go,” she said, like maybe Stiles had forgotten the question. “Sex. Like, really good, really adventurous sex.”

Stiles rolled his eyes even harder, throwing himself back into his desk chair and almost knocking himself over backwards.

“But our sex is already good and adventurous,” he said. “We do kinky stuff all the time. And it’s great, it is, but that’s not what I’m going for here.”

“Then what?” Erica asked, like she couldn’t imagine sex not being the be-all-end-all of emotional declarations.

“I just—I wanna let him know how much he means to me,” Stiles muttered. “I mean, with Derek it’s easy. It’s obvious what I should do for him, the kind of stuff he’d like. Everything’s all laid out by society as a whole, a simple template for what romantic love is and should be. It’s not that simple with Jackson, but I do know that just more sex isn’t gonna cut it.”

Scott made his thinking face, all scrunched up and a little constipated, and Stiles waited patiently to see if he would come out with one of his rare brilliant ideas, like that time he suggested just _asking_ Derek if polyamory might be a thing he could be okay with instead of just internally angsting and beating himself up about his budding feelings for Jackson like he was a dirty great cheat. _That_ had been a moment of genius, one that had worked out fantastically in the long run, and Stiles thanked him for it every moment of every day. Now, though, it didn’t seem like any such genius was going to make a repeat appearance.

“Uh, well…” Scott said. “Maybe…”

The crackle of the radio on Erica’s shoulder made them all jump, the near-unintelligible babble coming across the line to indicate a B&E downtown that required their presence. Erica pushed off from the desk and threw Stiles a wink.

“Just suck his dick, Stilinski,” she threw over her shoulder. “But like, all slow and sappy and shit. It’ll be great.”

“You’re completely useless, Reyes, have I told you that lately?” Stiles yelled after her. “And Scott, buddy. Hate to break it to you but you’re not much better.”

Scott pulled Stiles to his feet and shoulder-checked him in the direction of the station’s front door.

“Sorry, bro,” he said. “Maybe try asking Lydia?”

As Stiles climbed into the front seat of the cruiser, he resigned himself to the joy that would be that conversation.

 

* * *

 

 

3: LYDIA

 

“Seriously, Stiles?”

Lydia leveled him with a flat look over the lip of the frappuccino he had paid for as a bribe to get her there, completely unimpressed.

Stiles tried to make an indignant remark but he had already taken a bite of his muffin and it sort of came out as a spray of crumbs. That earned him a much less flat and much more disgusted look from Lydia, who wordlessly offered him a napkin from the dispenser on the little cafe table.

“Really, Stiles,” she said. “Are you seriously coming to _me_ for relationship advice?”

“Of course I am,” Stiles said once he’d successfully swallowed his muffin bite.

“But relationship advice specifically regarding Jackson?”

“Whom you dated,” Stiles pointed out.

“Yes, Stiles, I dated Jackson,” Lydia sighed. “And while one might think that would make me the foremost authority on all things Jackson Whittemore, I would like to remind you that my and Jackson’s attempt at a relationship was a nightmare that eventually went down in flames.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Stiles said weakly. “You were together for three years.”

“He only stayed with me that long out of guilt, expectation, and a misguided desire to ‘fix’ himself.”

“He doesn’t need fixing!” Stiles said immediately, a reflexive response by now after months of facing off with people who just didn’t understand. He’d confronted enough aphobes himself, and on behalf of both his boys—not that they couldn’t do it themselves, Stiles was just more confrontational by nature than either of them—that he had all the arguments and rebuttals memorized. But Lydia’s frown reminded him that he didn’t need them here, not with her.

“I know that,” she said, sounding almost hurt. “We both know that now, even if we didn’t then.”

Stiles sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes; he’d just come off a long shift;, he was exhausted, and he was really looking forward to going home and snuggling the hell out of Derek. But this was important, he reminded himself stubbornly. Jackson was worth a little stress and a few sleepless nights.

“There had to be something good in your relationship,” he said. “It’s not like he changed his name and fled the country when it ended. He obviously cared about you, and still does. I mean, you’re still good friends and everything.”

“Sweetie,” Lydia said, tone as patient as possible while also being relentlessly condescending in that special way of hers that didn’t actually feel insulting, “our entire affair was predicated solely on Jackson making himself miserable to try and please me.”

She took another sip of her drink, her eyes unfocused and a little bit sad. The smile on her face when she looked up at him again felt self-deprecatory, and Stiles had to wonder if she carried as much irrational guilt over the whole sorry thing as he knew Jackson did.

“It was all him making big romantic gestures that he hated because that’s what he thought he was supposed to do,” Lydia went on with a facetious flourish of her hand. “And him thinking he was _broken_ for not loving me like he should. Me feeling unworthy and unlovable because he didn’t feel the same way about me that I did about him, not realizing that it was just because he _couldn’t._ Both of us internalizing our negative feelings and ascribing them to personal failures, all over a fundamental incompatibility that just hadn’t been realized yet.”

Stiles cringed, slumped back in his chair, and stuffed the rest of his muffin into his mouth. Honestly, it’s not like any of it was news to him—he knew all about Jackson’s “romantic” history, the journey he’d had to take to find himself, his identity crisis and subsequent aromantic revelation, all of it—but he’d held out a little bit of hope that Lydia might have insights to offer him. Apparently this was another person checked off his depressingly short list of people who could help.

“So you really don’t have any suggestions?” he asked, aware that he probably looked like a sad puppy in the rain, all droopy and pitiful. Lydia obviously agreed because she gifted him with a rare smile.

“He already knows how you feel, Stiles,” she said. “Just don’t make him watch _The Notebook_ and I think you’ll do fine.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, gathered up all her things, and was dropping a kiss on the top of Stiles’ head on her way out before he could even thank her for that pearl of wisdom.

 

* * *

 

4: DAD

 

Stiles fiddled with the scanner on the dashboard of his cruiser, getting nothing but static. On the one hand, that meant there were currently no crimes being committed and that was a good thing. On the other hand, it meant there was nothing he could use to procrastinate from making the call he had been putting off for two days. It was a slow shift, there was nothing demanding his attention, and Scott was on a donut run because they were undeniably _those cops._ There was nothing stopping him.

Stiles steeled his resolve and pulled out his phone, scrolling down to the grainy candid picture he had manage to get of his dad trying his damnedest to escape from the camera. Smirking over that particularly entertaining memory, he clicked the little green phone button.

“Hey, kid!”

“Daaaaad,” Stiles said, dragging the one syllable out obnoxiously. “How’s retirement treating you, old man?”

He could practically _hear_ his dad’s dirty look.

“It’s depressingly uneventful, as well you know,” the Sheriff— _former_ Sheriff who couldn’t let go and wouldn’t stand to be called anything else—said flatly. “I’m bored out of my mind and going stir-crazy.”

“Yeah, well, we all gotta begin our slow and painful descent into obscurity and irrelevance sometime, right?” Stiles asked with a shit-eating grin that his dad couldn’t see but would know was there anyway. “But anyway, if my sources are correct, you’re not entirely phased out just yet.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“It means you have regular golf dates with all the important people in town, who keep you informed and possibly take your instructions from the back nine.”

His dad was quiet for a minute and Stiles sat back in his seat, so smug that he would’ve kicked his feet up if there’d been room.

“You make it sound like I’m a mob boss,” the Sheriff finally said, a grudging admission if ever Stiles had heard one but an admission nonetheless; Stiles punched the air. “What do you care about my contacts?” his dad asked.

“Well, daddy-o, it’s funny you should ask,” Stiles said lightly. “It’s just that, uh, I heard you were gonna be having lunch with one DA Whittemore tomorrow and, uh, I was wondering if maybe you could...ask him...what his son might want to do for his birthday?”

That last bit came out really fast and almost unintelligibly, but his dad was well practiced in translating his nervous babble so the expected groan reached Stiles in a timely manner.

“Aw, kid—”

“Come on, dad, help me out here!” Stiles said, all but begging because dignity had flown out the window with his dad years ago. “Jackson’s birthday is in four days and I have no idea what to do!”

“And how is the DA supposed to help with that?” the Sheriff asked. “He’s _your_ boyfriend, you should—”

“Ugh, _dad,_ how many times do I have to tell you that Jackson is not my boyfriend?” Stiles said with a frown. “You know he hates being called that.”

“Well, the stuff you two get up to certainly sounds like boyfriend stuff to me,” his dad said stubbornly. “You don’t seem to call him anything else.”

Only because Jackson had too much pride to let Stiles call him his zucchini like that one website had suggested, citing the term as ridiculous and beneath his dignity. Personally, Stiles had thought it was cute, but it was Jackson’s choice and he respected that. They could use queerplatonic partner or QPP—probably the most accurate way to describe what they had—but those didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, and Jackson had waved away all of Stiles’ attempts to define them anyway.

“Labels are restrictive and unnecessary,” Stiles told his dad staunchly. “All you need to know is that he’s _something_ but not a boyfriend. And his birthday is coming up so we gotta celebrate and, if you’re truly the good and supportive father I believe you to be, you will ask DA Whittemore for suggestions on my behalf because you love me and want me to be happy.”

“Stiles, shouldn’t you know?” his dad asked with a sigh of pure exasperation. “He’s your _something._ Shouldn’t you know what to do for your something?”

“So I take it you’re not gonna ask him?”

“No, Stiles, I am not going to badger the District Attorney about our sons’ relationship over lunch. You’re on your own, bud.”

“Great.”

Stiles hung up and dropped his head onto the steering wheel. It set off the horn, scared the ever-loving _shit_ out of him, brought Scott running out of the Dunkin’ Donuts in concern, and also set off a car alarm down the street. Stiles figured that was a pretty accurate summation of his luck lately.

 

* * *

 

 

5: DEREK

 

The first thing to go right all day was that Derek was there by the time Stiles got home, cross-legged on their bed with his textbooks and laptop spread out in front of him and glasses perched on his nose, looking like a total nerd but like fashion magazine level of nerd. Stiles shed his uniform as he crossed the room, paying no heed to where the pieces fell, so that he was in boxers and undershirt by the time he could throw himself face down on the bed beside his boyfriend.

He stayed there, just breathing in the smell of fabric softener and aftershave and letting himself go completely boneless, long enough to hear Derek’s snort of amusement and then set about wiggling himself forward until he could prop his head on Derek’s thigh. Derek obligingly uncrossed that leg, kicking it out to the side, so Stiles could wrap arms around his thigh and nuzzle his cheek against the soft cotton of his sleep pants. He freed one hand from his research to pet Stiles’ hair.

“Long day?”

“So long,” Stiles groaned.

Derek made a sympathetic noise.

“Greenberg is an idiot and if he botches a standard report one more time, I swear to god I will lead a protest march until Parrish fires him.”

“Sure you will, sweetheart.”

Stiles pinched him and Derek flicked his ear in retaliation without even looking up from his laptop. Stiles hugged Derek’s thigh tighter and definitely did not pout.

“This particularly pitiful mood of yours wouldn’t have anything to do with Jackson’s birthday, would it?”

Stiles frowned up at him; he’d thought he was being so discreet.

“How’d you know?”

Derek smiled down at his textbook, fingers still carding absentmindedly through Stiles’ hair.

“Because you’re predictable, babe,” he said. “At least to me.”

Stiles huffed a sigh and rolled over onto his back, using Derek’s thigh as a pillow. Derek’s hand, dislodged from his hair, ended up on his face and just kept petting until Stiles spluttered indignantly and dragged it down to rest on his chest instead.

“What do I do for Jackson’s birthday?” Stiles demanded. “I asked Scott and Lydia and Dad, and Erica volunteered useless opinions, and the DA wouldn’t help, or more like _Dad_ wouldn’t help by _asking_ the DA, and—”

“Have you asked _Jackson_ what he would like to do?”

“Yes!” Stiles said immediately. “Well. Sort of. That plan didn’t really work.”

“Why does everything have to be a plan with you?” Derek asked musingly. “And more importantly, why does _this_ in particular need a plan?”

“I can’t just ask him outright!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s his _birthday,_ ” Stiles stressed.

It should have been self-explanatory, but apparently Derek had never learned proper birthday protocol because his sideways-upside-down face still looked expectant. Stiles threw his hands in the air.

“Ugh! Birthday celebrations should be surprises, Derek. And half the point of them is that the person throwing the celebration is proving that they know you well enough to plan something you’d like without asking. Like that time I blindfolded Scott and took him to a petting zoo! He was so excited he nearly had an aneurysm! Did I need to ask to know that would be the case? No, of course not, because Scott is my best friend and I know _him._ ”

“Stiles, honey, you’re not a failure if you don’t know all Jackson’s deepest, most desperate desires yet,” Derek said in that annoyingly reasonable tone he got sometimes. “You haven’t been involved with Jackson as long as you’ve been BFFs with Scott, or even as long as you’ve been dating me.”

“Still,” Stiles insisted. “I shouldn’t be this stumped, should I?”

Derek finally closed his laptop. He tugged off his glasses too, but that was simply unacceptable because he looked damn good in those glasses and should wear them all the time ever. Stiles reached up to paw clumsily at his face with a noise of dissatisfaction. Derek rolled his eyes but put the glasses back on without complaint.

“Much better,” Stiles said.

“You know, sometimes I get the feeling you like my glasses better than you like my actual face,” Derek said.

Stiles painstakingly levered himself into an upright position so that he could pet Derek’s stubble-fuzzy cheek.

“Der, baby, your face is the best face and you know it,” he said firmly, providing emphasis by dropping kisses onto various places on said face. “And Jackson’s face is a close second, so you should help me because everybody else is _useless._ ”

Derek took Stiles’ face in his hands—his big, warm, lovely, perfect hands which Stiles appreciated very, very much—and held him still.

“Stiles,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Sweetheart, darling, love of my life. I am going to say this just once, so you should pay close attention. Got it?”

Stiles nodded as best he could.

“You’re being a moron.”

“ _What??_ ”

“Okay, I’ll say it one more time as a special bonus, just because I love you: you’re being a moron.”

“But how?” Stiles whined. “I just want to be the non-romantic equivalent of romantically spontaneous and thoughtful! How is that a bad thing?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing; I said you’re being stupid,” Derek reiterated. “Spontaneity is nice, but does Jackson really seem like the spontaneous type? Does he like surprises? Of any kind?”

Stiles pouted—and yes, this time he would acknowledge and accept that it was actual, petulant pouting and not just regular frowning.

“Not particularly, I guess,” he admitted. “But this is his _birthday._ ”

Derek kissed his lips, since they were already so nicely puckered up for him, and patted his cheek.

“Ask him,” he said briskly.

“But then it’s not a surprise!”

“That’s the point, babe. You can’t get it wrong if you just _ask him._ ”

Stiles threw himself back onto the bed again with another exaggerated groan, the bounce of impact nearly knocking Derek’s textbooks off the bed entirely.

“You _suck,_ ” he said with appropriate melodrama.

“Uh, no,” Derek said as he rescued his books and opened up his laptop to return to his assignments. “I’m pretty sure Jackson does all the sucking around here.”

Stiles sat up again fast enough to make his head spin.

“Derek, did you just make a sex joke in an attempt to cheer me up?”

Derek’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“Is it working?”

“Dude, I love you so much.”

“I know, baby. Now go to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 

+1: JACKSON AGAIN BUT, LIKE, FOR REAL THIS TIME

 

There was only one day left and Stiles was out of options. He had asked everybody he could think to ask for advice and not a one of them had had anything useful to say, and now he was down to the wire and no closer to having an activity planned for the big day. He had officially failed in his duties. There was nothing for it but to admit defeat and raise the little white flag.

Stiles got home in the middle of the day—one of his weirdly timed shifts, squeezed in to cover someone else’s absence—and was surprised to find Jackson on his couch. Not that it was really surprising for Jackson to be in his and Derek’s apartment considering he kind of, sort of, half-lived there too, but he hadn’t been around much for the last week or so. And maybe Stiles hadn’t been seeking him out as much as he usually did, but that was because Stiles was a nervous babbler who couldn’t keep a secret and he didn’t want to blab about his super secret birthday plans, such as they were (or were not).

He’d thought he would have to track Jackson down, but here he was watching those same shitty reality tv shows because, despite his well-to-do-ness and classy upbringing, Jackson had truly terrible taste when it came to entertainment. Currently it was RuPaul’s Drag Race, which Jackson would deny loving to his dying day and yet watched at every opportunity.

Stiles headed for the bedroom to trade his uniform for his hanging-out-on-the-couch-with-bae sweats. He brushed his hand over Jackson’s shoulder as he passed, but Jackson didn’t respond to him, not even with his usual “hey, loser” greeting. He got that way sometimes—moody, quiet, unresponsive—if he’d had a bad day or was feeling particularly badgered by their amatonormative society. Nothing to worry about.

Jackson hadn’t moved by the time Stiles re-emerged, arms crossed and feet kicked up on the coffee table because he was a heathen and Derek had long since given up on convincing him to not do that. He was tucked into the left corner of the couch, leaving the right corner and middle cushion for Derek and Stiles respectively even when they weren’t there, and it warmed Stiles’ polyamorous little heart to know that the three of them hung out that way often enough for the seating arrangement to be a habit.

He flung himself down into the open space, stretching out all his sore muscles and worming his way into Jackson’s lap to smile up at him. Jackson didn’t complain, but he didn’t acknowledge his presence either.

Stiles’ smile fell. Maybe Jackson had had a worse day than he thought. Maybe he’d been pestered by old ladies at the grocery store again, all of them ganging up to interrogate him on why he didn’t have a wife and babies yet like he was obviously supposed to. That always fucked him up.

“You okay?” he asked, careful not to sound _too_ concerned because that was a sure-fire way to make a touchy Jackson twice as touchy.

Jackson shrugged.

“Fine.”

“...okay.”

Stiles turned his attention to the show, turning on his side for a more comfortable viewing position. At first glance, he’d assumed it was reruns but upon closer inspection even his spotty viewership told him this was the most recent season, and judging by the challenges it was the finale. Which meant this was the last episode.

“Almost done,” he pointed out. “What do you wanna do after this is over?”

“Why don’t you ask Derek?”

Stiles immediately twisted back around to frown at the underside of Jackson’s chin.

“Why would I ask Derek? He’s not even here.”

“But his birthday’s coming up. You should probably start planning now. It’s very important, after all.”

Alright, so maybe Stiles’ original plan had backfired spectacularly because that sounded very bitter and accusatory.

“Fuck,” Stiles muttered, hauling himself back into a sitting position. “No, that’s not— Shit, have you been thinking that all week?”

“Thinking what?”

“That I forgot about your birthday and only cared about Derek’s?”

The little flex in Jackson’s jaw and the sideways look he got told Stiles that, yes, that was exactly what Jackson had been thinking. Stiles sighed heavily.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” he said. “I didn’t meant to— I wasn’t planning ahead for Derek’s birthday. I mean, even _I_ don’t plan ahead a full six months, that’s just ridiculous. Unless I’m doing something really, really cool, which is not out of the question, but that’s not the point. The point is, I wasn’t planning for _his_ birthday. I was trying to plan for _yours._ ”

Jackson looked at him with that crease between his eyebrows that said he was probably doubting Stiles’ sanity.

“You were...planning for my birthday...by asking about Derek’s?”

Stiles groaned and buried his face in the back of the couch.

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid!” he protested, voice muffled. “I was trying to stealthily gather information on what you considered birthday-type things! AKA, what you might want to do tomorrow. So I could surprise you with something you’d like.”

This was met with a silence long enough that Stiles had to unbury his face from the cushion. Jackson was staring hard at the tv, eyes unfocused and jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t look angry. Instead he looked that special brand of uncertain-defensive-stubborn that only he could manage. Stiles never knew quite what to do with that look, so he tentatively poked a finger into Jackson’s side. Jackson didn’t snap at him, so he scooted closer and laid a hand on Jackson’s thigh.

“Babe, you didn’t really think I’d forget completely, did you?”

Jackson didn’t say anything, which spoke volumes on its own.

Stiles poked him again. Just a little bit, but that was usually enough to unstick him when he got stuck in his own head. Otherwise he’d end up giving everybody he knew the silent treatment for days on end because he’d gone too long being angry and forgotten how to interact in a friendly manner again.

Jackson let out a sharp breath through his nose and said, “It was just…” but didn’t actually finish the sentence until Stiles poked him one more time, wiggling his fingertip right under Jackson’s rib for emphasis.

“It was just that you seemed so excited. You’re always so excited to do big, romantic things with Derek,” Jackson said in a rush, still facing the tv. “And that’s _fine._ He’s your boyfriend, and you love him, and you’re _supposed_ to want to do big, romantic things with the people you love. Big, romantic things on birthdays and holidays and vacations and—”

“Jackson, we’re not _supposed_ to do anything,” Stiles interrupted. “There’s no right or wrong here. You’re not wrong for not wanting big and romantic.”

“I know that,” Jackson snapped. “But _you_ want it.”

“I don’t,” Stiles said immediately. “Not from you, Jackson, because that’s not who you are. And if this is some _thing_ about how you feel like me and Derek are somehow more important than me and you, then you can just cut it out right the fuck now because you are _every bit_ as important to me as Derek is. That’s what this whole dumb mess was supposed to be about: showing you how much you mean to me. I’ve been angsting for days, I asked like twelve people for advice, I just really wanted to get it right. Obviously I fucked up somewhere along the line, but that doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”

That got Jackson’s full attention back on him. Wide-eyed, gap-mouthed, utterly surprised attention. Stiles may have floundered a little bit; that was a bit more than he’d actually meant to say out loud, at least so bluntly and right now in these circumstances.

“I, uh...I hope it’s okay for me to say that,” he stammered. “I mean, I can not say that if it makes you uncomfortable or something. Just, I figured you kinda already knew, and it’s not like I’m putting any pressure on you at all to say it back. Because, I mean, I know you do love me and that’s amazing and important, but, like, the phrase ‘I love you’ has such connotations nowadays that it might make you kinda queasy to say or hear it in this context, and it’s totally okay if that’s the case, I don’t mind, I just—”

Jackson’s hand over his mouth mercifully brought an end to the drivel spilling out of it. Jackson’s own mouth opened, but nothing came out of it. He closed it, shook his head, smiled in that way he so rarely did that kinda sorta lit up the room like sunshine.

“Did you really spend all week thinking about my birthday?”

Stiles pushed his hand away and said, “ _Yes,_ oh my _god,_ I swear to Jesus I have thought about nothing else! I have lost _sleep_ over this, okay, it has literally kept me awake at night. That is how much I want to do nice things for you and make you happy. And I still definitely want to, but I failed so now I ask you directly: how can I make you happy?”

Jackson laughed just a little bit and ducked his head.

“Is it, uh...would it be really sappy and gross to say you just did?”

Stiles’ smile almost broke his face and he didn’t even care because his stomach was all fluttery and his heart was skipping more than a jump-rope and Jackson was actually _holding his hand_ and it didn’t get any better than this.

“Totally sappy and gross, and also wonderful. But not an activity which we can then do tomorrow to celebrate your birthday,” he pointed out.

Jackson rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know, man. Let’s go to a movie or something. It really doesn’t matter to me what we do.”

“You mean,” Stiles said slowly, maybe a tiny bit teasingly, “as long as we do it together?”

He expected a groan and another eye roll, or a dirty look, maybe a friendly insult or two. Instead what he got a nod and a quiet, “Yeah.”

Stiles pulled Jackson forward until he could press their foreheads together, too overwhelmed to do anything else.

“I gotta say it again,” he whispered. “Please tell me I can say it again.”

Jackson laughed and nodded.

“I love you,” Stiles said. “In whatever way, it doesn’t even matter, I just do.”

“I know,” Jackson said—and it was a fucking Star Wars reference, if that didn’t prove it then nothing did. “And I love you…”

But there was a smirk on his face. There was a smirk and a mischievous glint in his eye that set off every alarm bell in Stiles’ head.

“No,” Stiles said immediately, eyes wide with horror because he knew where this was going. “No, no, Jackson, don’t you _dare—_ ”

“...No romo.”

The pillow fight—nay, the pillow _war_ —that followed spanned three rooms and was absolutely worth Derek's exasperation over coming home to find half their pillows destroyed and the bedroom covered in feathers.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art: Something for His Something](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530999) by [AFireInTheAttic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFireInTheAttic/pseuds/AFireInTheAttic)




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